mostly wine or spirits, anything that would dull the awful ache in the core of his being, the insatiable desire to unwrap the bones . . .
From somewhere within the apartment he heard the sound of a telephone ringing. It seemed to ring a lot lately, but he couldn’t remember the last time he answered it. Who’d be calling him anyway…?
Without warning, the name Jasmine appeared in his head and he saw a pretty face framed with blonde hair. For a moment his old life began to emerge like sunshine breaking through a cloud of dirty smoke. He clutched the bundle closer to his chest, and the sensation of the cold hard objects within pressing against his own fragile bones made everything all right again.
Still, the thought of that face and all that it promised forced him to rise from his lounge chair, knee joints cracking, the skin of his arms and chest reddened and sore from too much sun. As he staggered across the bedroom, he realised absently that he had pissed himself at some point in the recent past. He also realised that he didn’t care.
He fell onto his back on the bed and snatched up the phone receiver.
“‘Lo?” he grunted.
“Christ almighty, Carter! What the hell are you doing?”
“Who’s this?”
“Don’t give me that horseshit, Carter. You know damn well who this is.”
“Hey, Jas.”
“Why are you still in Mexico?”
He grinned to himself. “I like it here.”
“You were supposed to be back Wednesday, Carter!”
He searched his memory, trying hard to find his reasons for coming to this place, but the past was a misty shore.
“Are you drinking again?” she asked, some of the anger in her voice evaporating.
He raised the bottle of mezcal a few inches, staring the maguey worm in the eye. “I guess I am,” he said.
There was long silence from the other end of the line. Then: “Where’s my prize, Carter?”
“Prize?” he said after taking a deep swig. He could hardly remember her face, let alone some stupid prize she was due.
“That thing you said you were going to get me. Some voodoo trinket?”
He remembered. He had gone to Mexico to find her a talisman, something to impress her full-of-shit friends in New York. She gave him a blank cheque.
The Mexican girl…
The old woman…
Oh God, that wretched old woman . . . He looked at the bundle once more and felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. Tears came without warning.
“Carter? What’s happening?”
“I made a mistake, Jasmine,” he said. “I’m not strong enough. I never realised how strong you had to be. That old woman, I thought she was just some stupid old hag, but she knew, she knew how much strength it took.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bones,” he said in a strangled whispered, as if just naming them would bring about some terrible cataclysm. “I can’t think about anything else. Oh, Jas, I just want to touch them so much. Can you understand what that feels like?”
He recalled the need to touch her, the ache of passion, but even that most powerful of desires had never been as intense as this. This was like drowning slowly, and knowing the only air left in the world is cradled in your arms. This was like the vampire’s craving for blood.
He held the bundle up, trembling. “I’m going to touch them, Jasmine. I know I am. But I can’t, you see. If I do . . . I don’t know what’ll happen. I need help, Jas.”
She was silent for a long time. “I’m going to come down,” she said eventually.
He was gripped by a sudden panic, the thought of her here in this dangerous place, here with him and these deadly bones . . .
“No, don’t do that,” he told her.
“Too late,” she said. “It’s already done.”
Then the line was dead, and the tone drove into his brain like a nail. He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.
He had to sleep. Sleep and dream. But somehow the constant presence of the bones robbed him of the ability to switch off. When they were near he sensed a tiny
From somewhere within the apartment he heard the sound of a telephone ringing. It seemed to ring a lot lately, but he couldn’t remember the last time he answered it. Who’d be calling him anyway…?
Without warning, the name Jasmine appeared in his head and he saw a pretty face framed with blonde hair. For a moment his old life began to emerge like sunshine breaking through a cloud of dirty smoke. He clutched the bundle closer to his chest, and the sensation of the cold hard objects within pressing against his own fragile bones made everything all right again.
Still, the thought of that face and all that it promised forced him to rise from his lounge chair, knee joints cracking, the skin of his arms and chest reddened and sore from too much sun. As he staggered across the bedroom, he realised absently that he had pissed himself at some point in the recent past. He also realised that he didn’t care.
He fell onto his back on the bed and snatched up the phone receiver.
“‘Lo?” he grunted.
“Christ almighty, Carter! What the hell are you doing?”
“Who’s this?”
“Don’t give me that horseshit, Carter. You know damn well who this is.”
“Hey, Jas.”
“Why are you still in Mexico?”
He grinned to himself. “I like it here.”
“You were supposed to be back Wednesday, Carter!”
He searched his memory, trying hard to find his reasons for coming to this place, but the past was a misty shore.
“Are you drinking again?” she asked, some of the anger in her voice evaporating.
He raised the bottle of mezcal a few inches, staring the maguey worm in the eye. “I guess I am,” he said.
There was long silence from the other end of the line. Then: “Where’s my prize, Carter?”
“Prize?” he said after taking a deep swig. He could hardly remember her face, let alone some stupid prize she was due.
“That thing you said you were going to get me. Some voodoo trinket?”
He remembered. He had gone to Mexico to find her a talisman, something to impress her full-of-shit friends in New York. She gave him a blank cheque.
The Mexican girl…
The old woman…
Oh God, that wretched old woman . . . He looked at the bundle once more and felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. Tears came without warning.
“Carter? What’s happening?”
“I made a mistake, Jasmine,” he said. “I’m not strong enough. I never realised how strong you had to be. That old woman, I thought she was just some stupid old hag, but she knew, she knew how much strength it took.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bones,” he said in a strangled whispered, as if just naming them would bring about some terrible cataclysm. “I can’t think about anything else. Oh, Jas, I just want to touch them so much. Can you understand what that feels like?”
He recalled the need to touch her, the ache of passion, but even that most powerful of desires had never been as intense as this. This was like drowning slowly, and knowing the only air left in the world is cradled in your arms. This was like the vampire’s craving for blood.
He held the bundle up, trembling. “I’m going to touch them, Jasmine. I know I am. But I can’t, you see. If I do . . . I don’t know what’ll happen. I need help, Jas.”
She was silent for a long time. “I’m going to come down,” she said eventually.
He was gripped by a sudden panic, the thought of her here in this dangerous place, here with him and these deadly bones . . .
“No, don’t do that,” he told her.
“Too late,” she said. “It’s already done.”
Then the line was dead, and the tone drove into his brain like a nail. He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.
He had to sleep. Sleep and dream. But somehow the constant presence of the bones robbed him of the ability to switch off. When they were near he sensed a tiny
Similar Books
